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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22589944">if we ruled the world</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachyteabuck/pseuds/peachyteabuck'>peachyteabuck</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marvel Cinematic Universe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Mob, F/F, Switch Natasha, Switch Reader, switch wanda</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 13:35:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,542</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22589944</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachyteabuck/pseuds/peachyteabuck</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>a sort-of non-avengers au where everyone has their powers and absolutely no one is in a highly powerful mob (or, at least, that’s what the feds think). </p><p>or, for anonymous, who asked for a series about wanda x natasha x reader.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Natasha Romanov/Reader, Wanda Maximoff/Natasha Romanov, Wanda Maximoff/Natasha Romanov/Reader, Wanda Maximoff/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>147</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. of freedom</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>chapter specific warnings: wanda using her powers during sex, fingering, dom/sub dynamics, paranoia mention</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Baby,” you sigh. Your voice is slow, desperate not to scare her away – desperate to make sure she feels safe. If you spoke too loudly you’re worried she’d jump, skitter away like a feral cat in an alleyway – and just like when you’d try and trap one of the animals who roamed the streets of New York without a home, you have to <em>coax</em> her into her refuge under the thick, heavy blankets. <em>Come stay with me, </em>you want to whisper. <em>I can keep you safe, protect you.</em> Some days you’d try and be a little more aggressive in your efforts, maybe any other time you’d make kisses at her and try to entrap Wanda in your arms.</p><p>Today, though, you lower your voice and expose your tummy and pat the covers. Today, you lure her into the safety of your arms without becoming frustrated and giving up. Today, you don’t try to trick her. “Come back to bed.”</p><p>Wanda inhales deeply, still not meeting your gaze. She did wake up earlier than necessary, she’s got a good few hours before she has to leave. You know that, know her schedule better than she does. But, she’s also nervous for her meeting – and you know that, too. “I don’t know if I have the time,” she mumbles.</p><p>“Wanda,” you can see the muscles in her back tense with every inhale. It pains you to watch such a feeling course through her like that.  “<em>Come back to bed.”</em></p><p>There’s a beat of silence, but then she gives in - sighs and slips back under the warmed covers with you. She’s only in panties – a soft grey pair from some designer you’d probably mispronounce if you tried to say it aloud. They’re high, framing her narrow hips and flat stomach. Bruises from the night before are becoming more prominent by the minute, the V you formed with your teeth and tongue nearly purple as night. Without a top, you can see where they trail between her breasts then up and long each collarbone but where, carefully, you stopped wherever her sweater can’t cover.</p><p>Memories from then flash in front of you as she curls her legs around yours.</p><p>
  <em>Her pussy in your mouth with both her hands tangled in your messy hair. Her fingers deep in your cunt as you moan into her mouth. Her legs, shaking, as you came together for the fourth time that night. Deep pleasure you can feel in your muscles each time you move – moans that come from somewhere even deeper.</em>
</p><p>“You’re like a koala,” you whisper into her skin, smiling deep and wide. You kiss at where her hand intertwines with yours. It almost hurts – your heart and your lips and your cheeks. It almost hurts to be this happy and tender in a bed you share in an apartment you share with the woman you love. If the world outside was crashing, you doubt you’d make any move to safe yourself.</p><p>Wanda peppers tiny, featherlight kisses across your shoulders – you can feel her smiling, too. “And you’re like a stuffed animal.”</p><p>Silence settles over you both like the dust in the room settles on your windowsill – the one that has been superglued shut since you moved in (Wanda originally claimed it was because the burglary rate in the neighborhood was unnaturally high. Now, though, you know better).</p><p>Your lover can’t stay still, though, and soon she’s swirling a sunset of colors between her nimble fingers. It’s beautiful, the hues of pink and orange and hints of red and the yellow of the sun from the curtains making it even more so. It’s distracting, so much so don’t notice when you can’t move your hands.</p><p>You furrow your brow, thinking your arms had fallen asleep. It isn’t until Wanda flipped you on your back and was pulling a clean strap and dildo from your velour-lined sex toy drawer that you understand/</p><p><em>“</em>Lay back, baby,” Wanda coos. You abide, even when she lets you go to pull the strap on over her hips and adjust it.</p><p>You’re still wet from the night before – <em>how could you not be?</em> – so while one hand keeps you still Wanda slips two fingers from the other into your dripping heat. All you can do is whimper, your throat sore for the same reason.</p><p>“Fuck, you’re so wet,” Wanda moans, grinning when she finds that spot inside of you that makes you cry out. “You’re gonna soak my sheets, baby girl.”</p><p>“<em>Our</em> sheets,” you correct. A captain goes down with their ship; you will go down with a half-smile and a glint in your eye that shines brighter than a mid-day sun.</p><p>“Mm,” is all Wanda says back, smiling as she crooks her fingers in <em>just</em> the right way. “My apologies, darling. How will I ever make it up to you?”</p><p>You want to bite back with an equally sarcastic response, want to push her down and make her come until she’s begging for you to let up. You can’t, though, because even if you’re not leather- or rope- bound Wanda’s got you pinned to the bed. <em>Stupid powers.</em> You try and break out of invisible binds, do your best to squirm and fight and reach for the woman just above you.</p><p>It doesn’t work though, nothing works. A part of you you’ll never admit exists, a part of you that Wanda <em>knows</em> lives and thrives deep in a secluded corner of your brain, is glad you can’t break from your hold. <em>What would the fun be if you didn’t try, though? What would this game be if Wanda couldn’t bite her bottom lip as she watched you struggle in her hold?</em></p><p>“Gonna ride you face, baby,” Wanda coos. “You want that? You wanna be a good little girl for me and make me come all over that pretty little face of yours?”</p><p>You <em>mmm</em> and nod, biting your bottom lip and beaming up at her. “Yes, Ma’am.”</p><p>Wanda smiles back as she crawls her way up your body. She stops next to your head, kissing your temple, your cheek, your lips. “Good girl.”</p><p>She swings her leg over your body and moves to straddle your face. Her pussy, likes yours, is absolutely dripping with her, with her thick, heady scent that makes you moan the second your tongue meets her center. You take long, deep drunk from her nectar as you trace over her folds.</p><p>“<em>Fuck,</em>” she gasps out, struggling to speak. “How are you so good at this? Fuckin’ love your mouth.”</p><p>Her deep accent, one that had eroded to a slight tinge overtime, coats her words like caramel over a crisp Granny Smith apple. It’s one of the best parts of having sex with Wanda: you love seeing the parts of her she’s hidden from the rest of the world. She has to be serious at her job, stoic and cold and controlling and conniving. Her <em>literal job </em>is to manipulate whoever her boss wishes, and (even though Wanda is very adamant about being <em>very good</em> at what she does) it can be quite draining. You can see it when she comes back after a long day, or even sometimes after a short one.</p><p>All of that seems to melt away when you’re with Wanda, as if within the four walls of your bedroom (or kitchen, or shower, or living room floor, or…) she can molt the snakeskin she has to rebuild every time she gets called in. Her accent – one she locked inside her long ago – is only revealed when the exoskeleton is left at the door.</p><p>You moan again, deep in your chest, when you feel your pussy being stretched and filled. You can see one of Wanda’s hands and the red-purple electricity swirling around her fingers, the other hand’s tangled in your hair.</p><p>Somehow, knowing it’s her powers that are fucking you makes it that much better, makes your pussy that much <em>wetter</em> as some phantom force rails you within an inch of your life. Each thrust into you makes you groan into Wanda’s pussy, which makes her hands tighten into fists and strangled moans leave her plush lips.</p><p>You’re close, and so is she, when Wanda pulls off of you and leaves you panting and empty. You’re about to whine and cry and beg for something, but then Wanda’s back on your face – this time, facing away from you. Before you can understand what’s happening you feel Wanda’s mouth on your own pussy, her own fingers (her <em>real</em> fingers and mouth) stretching you open. Your own hands, now free, grab at Wanda’s hips to hold her to you.</p><p>One of her arms wraps around one of your legs, letting her pin you down as she sinks two fingers into you.</p><p>You can practically hear her smiling, her fingers leaving you for a moment as she sits back up. You whine into Wanda’s pussy at the emptiness and she giggles, circling your clit absent-mindedly as she mocks you.</p><p>“Aw, don’t worry about it, slut, I’ll have you filled up soon, alright?”</p><p>You <em>mmhmm</em> into her sweet cunt, the noises quickly turning into deep moans when her fingers enter you once more.</p><p>It’s good, <em>so good</em> and you’re nearly bursting from the pleasure. Your heels kick, trying to find purchase so you can buck you hips. It’s impossible, though, Wanda sees all from her vantage point and makes it so your feet always <em>just</em> miss the sheets.</p><p>“Just give up, baby,” she coos. “You know how well I have control, how easy it is for me just,” she flicks her hand and whatever’s inside of you grows and pumps inside of you. She laughs as you cry out. “exercise how much dominance I have over you.”</p><p>You into her pussy once more before she starts to grind down on you. She nearly growls when she speaks next. “<em>Now make me come.”</em></p><p>You take your order with valiance, tongue making broad, sloppy strokes against her pussy when you’re not panting and moaning desperately. Wanda takes pity on you, releasing one of your hands from her hold so you can reach up and sink two, <em>three</em> fingers in to her and curl them until she’s crying out, too, grinding against your face once more until your face is covered in her juices.</p><p>She continues to ride your face as the aftershocks of the orgasm flow through her body like waves, her hips moving in a similar fluid motion.</p><p>Wanda takes a moment to catch her breath, and to let you catch yours; when she moves to sit next to you – for a moment you think it’s over, you’re done, you’ve satisfied her.</p><p>But no, of course not. Wanda Maximoff, the woman you love, is never satisfied – especially not when it comes to sex with you.</p><p>Within the blink of an eye she’s staring down at you, wicked smile plastered on her face as she sits above you, hands at resting on her thighs while her powers pin you down and fuck into you.</p><p>“You like that, baby,” she asks, voice dripping with sadistic delight. “You like how I fuck you so well without even having to lift a finger? Do you like how good I can make you feel without touching you?”</p><p>You nod furiously, unable to form any intelligible words but still desperate to please her.</p><p>Wanda leans down to whisper in your ear, the feeling in your pussy never letting up. “Do you like how much power I hold? Do you like how easy it is to make you submit?”</p><p>You bite your bottom lip before giving a small nod.</p><p>Wanda grabs at your chin, making your eyes meet hers as she hisses through grit teeth. “<em>Say it.”</em></p><p>“I love how power you have,” you nearly scream – a stark contrast from your previous silence. Wanda <em>loves </em>when you’re vocal – adores how loud you can get. She’s lucky the walls are thick, or else she’d be getting complaints from her neighbors at least every other day. Part of her, though, wonders if that’d be so bad…a wave of arousal hits her as she imagines claiming you knowing everyone could hear how good she fucks you, how loud you are. “I love how easy it is for you to get me under you!”</p><p>Wanda smiles wide as she stares down at you – skin covered in a thin layer of sweat as you moan and writhe on the bed. It’s the most beautiful sight she’s ever seen. Fuck all that high-scale art mob bosses love so much, those expensive paintings that are perfect for hiding bugs in, for covering up secret safes and whatnot.</p><p>Wanda could watch you groan and cry out around nothing for the rest of her natural life (and whatever comes after that). She has the urge to film it so she can watch it every day forever – but that would require tearing her eyes away for the few seconds it would take for her to find her phone. How could she waste these precious moments staring at you, admiring you, loving you? You come again, and again, and again just like that – under her spell or whatever it is she does with whatever it is she has.</p><p>Wanda lets up, eventually, gives you a moment – allows everything to recede. You whimper at the empty feeling in and around you and you don’t know why you craved being released from her grip for so long. Why did you ever wish to be free of her – even if it meant feeling like your body was a live wire? How could you have ever wished such a thing?</p><p>You’re still recovering, still waiting for your vision to clear up, when Wanda produces a Hitachi out of thin air and positions her hips just above yours. You moan when you understand what’s happening, the deep noise quickly becoming high-pitched and desperate at Wanda turns the vibe on. You’re already sensitive, like Wanda, and it only intensifies as you both begin to grind into the soft silicon. As such, it doesn’t take long for you both to come for a final time – room quiet except for your breathy moans and the vibrations.</p><p>Wanda collapses next to you, each of you panting heavily. She curls around you, pulling you to her so your back presses into her bare chest.</p><p>She leaves light kisses along your shoulder, the crest of your ear.</p><p>“You good,” she whispers. It’s not accusatory, not worried. Like many times before, she’s just checking in.</p><p>“Of course,” you say back – voice equally low. “You don’t have to worry, all the time, you know.”</p><p>Wanda huffs out a loud laugh. “Oh baby, of course I do.”</p><p>She eventually detangles her limbs from yours, the sun becoming too hot on her skin and the patience of her boss wearing thinner by the minute.</p><p>You don’t whine when she leaves you like you did before, understanding she <em>really </em>needs to go this time (like, for real), but you still sigh and roll over to her side of the worn mattress. When you inhale you can smell her – her deodorant, her body wash, her cunt. It’s <em>heaven</em>.</p><p>“Miss you already,” you say into the sheets, ready to return to sweet slumber once again – even if you have to do it alone.</p><p>Wanda laughs lightly, pulling on your least-dirty shirts, a dark pair of jeans, and a deep-maroon sweater. As she puts her hair up into a loose ponytail with one of the many hair ties littering the floor, you can see her looking for her shoes. You sigh and roll your eyes.</p><p>“Under the dining room table, babe,” you call from your incredibly comfortable position.</p><p>She scoffs, looking under the bed again with increased fervor. “Why would my shoes be under the dining room table? Who puts their shoes under the dining room table? Who am I? Not a person who puts their shoes on the dining room table, that’s for damn sure.”</p><p>“Babe, you didn’t ask me <em>why</em> your shoes are where they are-“</p><p>“I didn’t ask you where they <em>are</em>, either!”</p><p>You can hear her footsteps becoming quieter as she pads into the kitchen. Judging by her huffing and not saying goodbye before the door slams, her shoes were – in fact – under the dining room table, just as you knew they were.</p><p>
  <em>You’re in love with an idiot. An absolute <b>idiot</b>. And, God, this is the happiest you’ve ever been.</em>
</p><p>Wanda’s present at the meeting…mostly. She checks the clock on the wall behind her boss’ desk once every, ten? Fifteen seconds?</p><p>The P.I. Natasha hired to track a possible mole doesn’t notice – something Natasha picks up on the fourth time she sees Wanda’s eyes flick three feet above Natasha’s eyeline. The woman makes a note on her desk calendar to fire the guy ASAP, and to more strictly enforce Natasha’s policy on hiring only women freelancers.</p><p>(This dude is supposed to be the best in the business and can’t notice that a woman literally <em>two feet</em> from him isn’t paying attention to whatever he’s saying. Jesus Christ, they’re giving licenses to fuckin’ anybody these days.)</p><p>The man leaves, eventually (though, much, <em>much</em> past when social convention would dictate). Once the door has closed and Natasha is sure no one can hear them, she questions the woman in front of her.</p><p>“Why in God’s name are you checking the time so often?” she inquires, eyebrows furrowed. “Is something wrong? Oh God, are you supposed to do a drop off? Is someone threatening you?”</p><p>Wanda’s wide eyes get even bigger, her hands flat out in front of her. “Oh no! Nat, what the fuck? Chill out. No, it’s just…”</p><p>Natasha relaxes a little (<em>just</em> a little), but still watches her friend like a hawk.</p><p>“Sorry, it’s just. It’s just my g-,” Wanda coughs and corrects herself, trying to pass off her actions as clearing her throat. Natasha sees this obvious remediation but does not comment. “I just promised a friend I’d see them today. At a coffee shop. Today. This afternoon. At a coffee shop. After the lunch rush.”</p><p>Natasha narrows her eyes and slams both her hands down on the dark-oak desk in front of her. “Wanda whatever-the-<em>fuck</em>-you-middle-name-is Maximoff, I <em>swear to God</em> if you have a girlfriend and <em>did not tell me</em> I am <em>going to behead you.”</em></p><p>Wanda looks fearful for a moment, but then the widest smile breaks out on her face. “I am! She’s amazing! The best! We’ve been dating officially about six months but- “</p><p>“Six MONTHS!?” Natasha nearly yells, slamming her hands onto the desk once more.</p><p>“But we’re taking it very slow because she says she just got out of a relationship and stuff. Like, last night was one of the few nights she’s stayed over and didn’t run off before the sun rose.”</p><p>Natasha <em>mm</em>s, nodding her head in understanding. “Is she cautious, or are you?”</p><p>Wanda glares at her boss-slash-friend, but doesn’t disagree with the thinly veiled criticism. “She’s great, though. Do you wanna see a picture?”</p><p>Natasha rolls her eyes and snorts. “Of fucking <em>course</em> I want to see a picture!”</p><p>They both giggle as Wanda pulls out her phone and scrolls through the less-than appropriate photos of you to find your date from yesterday afternoon – the one where you two got flatbread pizza and cheap beer and laughed so hard Wanda was sure she gained a six-pack by the time you returned. You’re smiling big, hair pulled back; dressed in a soft grey shirt Natasha recognizes as Wanda’s and black leggings and worn sneakers. That’s not all Natasha recognizes.</p><p>“You okay?” Wanda asks. Her concern is genuine, but so is Natasha’s fear.</p><p>Natasha nods. “Yeah, tell me more about her. What’s she like?”</p><p>Wanda’s eyebrows relax and she smiles again, flipping through photos and telling stories. The first photo is of Wanda and someone…someone Natasha recognizes? Somehow? She’s can’t place it, but – she swears she’s seen that <em>face</em> before, that smile, those teeth.</p><p>The next photo is Wanda and the same someone sharing a meal. The way the someone’s smile crooks, the way their teeth shine in the light and how their hair looks in a sleek bun…</p><p>The third photo is when it clicks for Natasha, seeing the someone and Wanda in coordinating outfits for a date to an art museum. It’s…shocking, to Natasha. This is the first time in a while, since the last time she saw that <em>someone,</em> that she’s felt like her world is crashing down around her. And that feeling – one of doom and disaster – is one she does not like.</p><p>It’s not too long after that Natasha finds a reason to cut the conversation short, showing Wanda out.</p><p>“I’ll see you later!” Wanda calls. “Oh, maybe I can introduce you!”</p><p>Natasha nods and smiles, saying something about “how that would be nice” and “I’ll see you later.”</p><p>There’s only so much she can do to avoid the judging eyes of her bodyguards, but she ignores them nonetheless. This is something she needs to think over alone.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. of pleasure</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>chapter specific warnings: flashback, angst if you squint, heavy smut, sub!natasha, mention of violence/self doubt, alcohol as a coping mechanism</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Natasha awkwardly ushers Wanda out, biting at her nearly-bleeding nail beds and carefully avoiding the wide, prying eyes of the large bodyguards she has stationed outside of her office at all hours. If she were in a more level-headed state she would glare and snap at them and threaten to fire them – she would be <em>Natasha Romanoff</em>, head bitch in charge and a woman whose firey hair gets its color from the blood in her veins.</p>
<p>But she’s not <em>Natasha Romanoff</em>, she’s <em>Nat</em> – a woman who can barely make it to the plush chair behind her desk before memories of the best fuck in her life are pouring over her. She doesn’t know how she remembers so much, but every time she blinks the room looks more and more like the bar you two met in.</p>
<p>It was Natasha’s bar, but it looked nothing like it did now. Then she had just risen in the ranks, was still earning the respect of patrons and those below her. It was a difficult night; Bucky had gotten hurt and Nat was drinking her fears away – desperate to corral them into some corner of her mind instead of letting them run loose.</p>
<p><em>If she couldn’t protect her best friend, how could she protect the mob? </em>Her hands nearly shook as she took another shot.<em> The assets? The people that had just begun to work under her? Was she meant for this? Was she good enough?  </em></p>
<p>She was on her third vodka tonic of the night when you intervened, taking up the empty barstool to her left. She had seen you before – you were a bartender who was a previous hire but worked hours Natasha was often busy which meant the two of you rarely crossed paths.</p>
<p>
  <em>“Shouldn’t you be working?” Natasha scoffs, though a little slurred, hoping to avoid something akin to a PR nightmare.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>You shrug, replacing her alcoholic drink with a tall glass of water. “Part of my job is making sure the sad drunks don’t do anything they’ll regret later. Now drink some water, I don’t want to clean vomit from the grout of my bar.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“YOUR bar?” Natasha rolls her eyes, her words starting to slur and movements beginning to slow. “Don’t you know this is MY bar?”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>You sigh. “When the owner is too drunk to see straight, line of succession dictates it is now <b>my</b> bar.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Natasha furrows her brow and shakes her head as two of the biggest women you have ever seen carry her out of the establishment and towards her apartment. “…But I’m a lesbian…”</em>
</p>
<p>Somehow, through the hazy parts of that night, that incredibly embarrassing memory reigns clear as day.</p>
<p>
  <em>Natasha’s retching into a toilet she does not recognize in a bathroom she’s never seen before. To be fair, though, she did not have much time to admire/familiarize herself with the décor before she ripped off her shirt and then vomiting up everything from her appendix to her lungs. If she was anything more than a shell of a woman after this night, she’d be the luckiest girl on the face of the Earth.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Sh…sh, it’s okay,” she hears your voice in the distance and feels your hand on the small of her back. “It’s okay, get it all out.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>When she’s finally done, you hand her a tall class of cold water and many, <b>many</b> painkillers. Natasha understands what to do without prompting – swallowing everything you give her with as much eagerness as a dog finding a pill within a spoonful of peanut butter. Makes the same face, too.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>By sheer luck, you get her into your bed without her vomiting on anything. Natasha falls asleep easily, eyes unfocused as they close.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Thank you,” she mumbles just before falling asleep.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“No problem,” you tell her.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>You end up sleeping on the couch a room away, waking up every few hours to check on her. The only time she wakes up is when you’re making breakfast the next morning – eggs and turkey bacon and coffee black as the asphalt Natasha would’ve eaten if you didn’t help her home. You gesture with the spatula in your dominant hand, the other on the handle to keep the pan steady.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Sit, come eat,” you tell her – voice comforting but direct.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Natasha follows the orders easily, her eyes downcast until you take your place in the chair across from her. Only then does she look up, struggling to avoid your heavy gaze.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Bad night?” you ask between bites of food.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Natasha sighs, swallowing down her food with coffee. “Yeah, you could say that.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“You wanna talk about it?”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>She shakes her head. “Nah, not a fan of reliving something I tried to forget.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“You wanna fuck about it?”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Natasha nearly spits out the remnant of her eggs onto the table. “Are you serious?”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>When she meets your eyes, she doesn’t see you laughing or smiling or even <b>about</b> to laugh or smile. All she sees is a beautiful woman offering her sex after what is quite possibly the worst night of her life.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>While Natasha gazes at you in sheer horror, disgust - you look almost…relaxed. Chill. Decompressed.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Natasha stays quiet as you speak, with one eyebrow raised and your lips curled into a smirk. “Are you?”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>The woman across from you doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything back. For a long while, she remains statuesque – both in beauty and in stillness. She doesn’t say anything until she’s finished her food and placed her plate gingerly into the kitchen sink. Even then, she avoids your eyes ad grips the edge of the counter like a lifeline.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Only if I can shower first.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>You laugh with your head thrown back, deep and loud and boisterous. It’s the most beautiful laugh Natasha’s ever heard, and her heart aches when you finally speak.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Sure thing, Red. Towels in the third shelf in the cabinet, use as many as you like.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Natasha doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t even meet your eyes as she follows muscle memory to the place where she puked her guts up in the night previous.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Once she figures out your shower and turns the knob marked with a red H all the way on, Natasha looks around, peaking in the cabinets and under the sink – a bad habit from the days of training. She doesn’t know what she’s expected to find, but nothing of the sort piques her interest. It’s all…quite regular, normal even.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Under the sink she sees tons of cleaning supplies, what she guesses are doubles of various beauty/hygiene products, empty travel-sized bags.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>The mirror-fronted cabinet is filled with over the counter medication, sample-sized beauty products, and enough skin care merchandise to leave all of Manhattan pimple-free.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>When she closes it, the thick steam turns her reflection into a mere blob, and only then does Natasha Romanoff strip off her clothes.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>The water burns her skin, bites at her cuts, makes her bruises sting. If she was anywhere else, she’d probably scream and cry, maybe pick at the scabs starting to form.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Here, though, she swallows the stone that’s accrued in her throat and ignores the even bigger boulder that’s made its home in the center of her chest. She grabs for the shampoo (then body wash, then conditioner) and tries to clean herself.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>The spicy mint liquid (did she mention that everything was coordinated? Not even the same brand, just a perfectly harmonized sympathy of scents) works for the dirt, for the sweat, for the weird stickiness she doesn’t recognize that clings to the skin of her thighs and palms and, somehow, places inside her.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>She doesn’t know how long it is when she finally steps out – pads of her fingers and toes wrinkled and her lungs clouded with the steam. She can barely breathe, but she has a feeling its not because of the thick air.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>The towel – deep and maroon – is the fluffiest and softest thing Natasha’s ever felt against her skin. She pads back to the room she slept in last night, only a little shocked to find the bed made and you, barefoot in a baggy t-shirt and running shorts, reading a thick book you’re about halfway through.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>She catches flashes of the front cover – something she dismally recognizes. It’s a spy novel, one of those cheesy romance ones that are incredibly popular with middle-aged moms and lonely Christian college students.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Whatcha readin?” Natasha asks.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>You look up and smile after looking her over. “Some garbage. Borrowed it from a friend after she said I’m, well,” you let out a self-deprecating laugh. “that I’m ‘super lonely.’ Which isn’t not true.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Natasha smiles back. “Still sounds kinda mean.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>You shrug. “Truth hurts, I guess.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>There are a few moments of silence as you and her stare at each other – the kind of silence Natasha doesn’t seem to mind. Normally she hates the quiet, feels the need to fill whatever void she feels is created by lack of speech.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Still, she’s the person to break it. “Why are you smiling like that?”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“That towel,” you say, smirk still on your lips. “Matches your hair.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Natasha smiles a little, avoiding your gaze as she searches for the dirty clothes from last night. Without hesitation, you push the clothes toward her with your foot – except now they’re clean, folded, fresh.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Thanks,” Natasha mumbles. “I…thanks.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>You shrug, telling her its no problem. “Assumed you wouldn’t want to put on your dirty clothes, so…”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Natasha nods but says nothing, reaching for the clothes. She stops when she notices you putting your book to the side and readjusting against the headboard. Natasha stands there, clutching where the towel tucks into itself – waiting for whatever you’re going to say next.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“C’mere,” you say, beckoning her over with a single crooked finger.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>She follows, still silent, walking to the edge of your bed with shaky hands and awkward legs. She hesitates, waiting for confirmation.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“It’s alright, baby girl, c’mere,” you say again, opening your legs further. An invitation, Natasha realizes. It makes her heart speed up.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>She gives you a small nod before moving forward, adjusting her towel along the way with her eyes trained on the bed.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>You guide her so that her back – still covered by the towel – presses into your chest.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“If you ever want to stop,” you whisper, intertwining your hands with hers. The pads of her fingers are still slightly wrinkled and sensitive and she nearly moans as her skin meets yours. “Just tell me, okay?”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Natasha gives a small nod, moving closer to you.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“This alright?” you ask, moving to undo her towel.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>She nods again, then tenses as her damp skin is exposed to the cool air. Your warm hands make goosebumps erupt over her soft, sweet-smelling skin. Her breath hitches as your teeth trail across her back - leaving kisses along her shoulder and up into her hairline then on the shell of her ear.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Just relax, baby,” you tell her. “Don’t worry about anything, just let me take care of you.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Natasha nods silently, readjusting before pressing back into you. The towels falls as she does, and as it bunches uncomfortably you grab at it to throw it to the floor. With her last veil of modesty tossed carelessly aside Natasha blushes, moving to cross her arms over her chest.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>You tsk, moving her arms from in front of her. “Don’t hide from me, baby,” you mumble into her ear. “Don’t ever hide your beautiful body from me.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Natasha stays silent, hands resting outside your knees. She does nod, though, and presses into you once more. One of your arms goes across her chest, keeping her own arms in place at her sides. The other trails between her legs, fingertips ghosting over her thighs and across her lower stomach. You can hear Natasha’s breath hitch each time your skin meets hers.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“You like that, baby girl?” You ask. She nods again, small squeaks leaving her as you collect some of the slick that’s dripping onto your sheets. “You like it when I touch you like this?”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Natasha moans as you plunge one, two fingers into her. She watches for a few thrusts before clenching her eyes shut and letting her head fall back into your shoulder and panting into your bare neck. It’s not long before you can feel her pussy clenching around your fingers, her breath coming out in light pants and moans deeper than before.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“I-I’m,” you can hear her try to swallow despite the dryness of her mouth. “Fuck, I’m gonna come.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>You smile and bite at the shell of her ear. “It’s okay, baby girl, you can come, you can come all you want tonight.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>It only takes a few more crooks of your fingers, a few more circles around her clit for Natasha to throw her head back and nearly scream – her legs shaking as she gushes over your fingers and wrists and sheets. Her whole body – once quite tense – now slacks against your chest. You’re a little taken aback by her squirting, and that this is normal enough for Natasha that she has no problem ruining another lover’s bed. Somehow it makes it that much hotter, makes you that much wetter, as you manhandle her onto her back. She’s pliant, laying nice and open for you - even as you grab the strap and cleaned cock from the back of one of the drawers in your nightside table, even as you slide one of your biggest toys into her soaked, aching pussy.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Natasha’s whole body is tense, each individual muscle chasing pleasure. She’s got her knees pulled up to her chest, one arm holding them in place and the other gripping your sheets. She doesn’t remember the last time she’d been folded in <b>half</b>, but now she wishes she could spend every day like this.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Oh, god,” she moans, high-pitched and whiny. “God, it feels so good.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>You laugh a little, catching her lips in a kiss as you thrust shallowly into her. “Yeah, baby girl? You like getting fucked like this?”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Natasha nods, gasping each time the leather of the strap brushes her clit. “Yes, fuck yesyesyes.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Your hand wraps around Nat’s throat, pushing her further into the bed. “Yes, of course she does. My big powerful mobster loves getting her pussy demolished, doesn’t she? Needs to be fucked so that she can focus on her job?”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>The woman in question is nodding and babbling absolute nonsense – and, in the low light, you’re sure you see tears fall down her face.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>One of your hands comes down to properly rub at her neglected clit. Natasha nearly screams as you do, hips bucking in a wild, animalistic way.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“You gonna come like this?” you whisper, leaning down to kiss between her brows. “Is my nasty little slut gonna come from me fucking her this good?”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Natasha nods again, each thrust soliciting another desperate, high-pitched moan from somewhere deep in her throat.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Yeah?” you faux-pout, voice dropping as you watch her eyes roll back into her head. You spit on her cunt, Natasha wailing as the slick collecting there allows you to rub harder, faster at the most sensitive part of her.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>She comes with a shout – with a loud, deep moan you wish you’d recorded. It takes you a moment, takes the pounding in your chest and ears a moment to recede, for you to realize your abdomen (as well as hers) were covered in her wetness. Her dry lips and flittering eyes only give more credence to your understanding, to your realization that she had <b>squirted</b> all over you.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Natasha groans as you pull out, the delicateness of her pussy as well as the emptiness combining into a cognitive dissonance she could feel in the tip of her toes.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>You get her something to drink – an unmarked Gatorade bottle you’re praying isn’t spiked (you’ve been a bartender long enough to usually know what is and isn’t, but somehow Natasha seems like someone able to escape your watchful eye).</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>It takes a few minutes for the color to return to Natasha’s face, for her to ask if she can get you off, too. You smile and kiss her again, silently sitting up.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>You finally come with your pussy hovering over Natasha’s panting mouth, her face becoming soaked with your wetness and, soon, your cum. She’s able to find the mental focus to clean some of it up, and it takes all of you not to pounce on her as you watch her, with hooded eyes, desperate to for praise as she licks at her face.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“You good, darling?” you coo, wiping at her cheeks with your thumbs.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Natasha sniffles. “Yeah, yeah I’m good.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>You nod, running your hands through her sweaty hair. “Alright, I’m gonna grab you another Gatorade, okay? I’m not gonna be gone long, I promise.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>She nods, making no effort to move. Natasha lays there, practically inert as she hears you leave the room. She’s too tired to look at anything but the ceiling – the terrifying reality of what she has to do next settling over her.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Still, she closes her eyes and listens to you padding into the kitchen and opening the refrigerator. The faint sound of the bottle opening, the cap being thrown away and hitting the side of the metal trash can. It’s all so mundane but everything Natasha needs right now – reprieve from her mistakes and the consequences of them.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>You help her up, when you get back, so she can drink without coughing and sputtering and drowning on dry land. One hand remains occupied with holding the bottle of liquid, while your other arm wraps around your back. It rests at her side, with your thumb rubbing circles into the heated skin.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>You coo sweet praises into her hairline, your legs bracketing her in. When the dull-orange liquid is gone you toss it to the side – pulling Natasha down with you.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>You fall asleep easily, Natasha resting on your bare chest. She knows when you’ve fallen into unconsciousness because your fingers stop carding through her hair, working through the knots that have found themselves there.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>She waits, listening as your heartbeat and breathing slow to an even pace. Natasha lays there for a long while, savoring the feeling being in your arms – of the delicious tiredness in her muscles. Wide awake, she waits until the orange-yellow sun begins to light up the room.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>You lay there, wonderfully oblivious to Natasha getting redressed and finding her dead, now-cracked phone; unaware of her holding her shoes until the front door was closed softly and silently.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>She doesn’t put her shoes on until the gets in the elevator, and doesn’t cry until she finds her way home.</em>
</p>
<p>The memory is long, vivid – she can nearly feel your skin under her fingertips. It’s then that the reality of the situation hits her, that what she thinks is happening is, in fact, really actually fucking happening:</p>
<p>Wanda Maximoff, Natasha Romanoff’s best friend and right-hand woman, is dating a woman Natasha has lowkey been in love with for about a year.</p>
<p>Has she seen you since that night? No. She’s got a picture of you, one she found after cleaning out a thick stack of photos (like, <em>physical</em> ass photos) from the bar. It’s you, happy, pouring drinks with both hands. She’s got it tucked away somewhere in her bedroom beneath old medications she never finished and note she scribbled.</p>
<p>Has she made an effort to? No. Never to look at the photo, or to find you. It should be easy, considering you work at the bar she owns – but ever since that night…she’s avoided it. The bar.</p>
<p>Does she still feel a gut-wrenching guilt gnawing at her as she folds herself into a fetal position on her office floor? Absolutely.</p>
<p>Natasha finds herself in the center of an ethical dilemma of the worst kind; the rare kind that a gun or knife or sly smile can’t get her out of. For what is likely the first time in her whole life-slash-professional-career, she probably actually should really deal with whatever corner she’s backed herself into.</p>
<p>Isn’t there some girl code, or whatever, that says she should tell Wanda what’s happened? Shouldn’t she at least warn you? But, even if she wanted to, how would she do that, given she hasn’t so much as <em>looked</em> at you since she snuck out of your apartment? Should she warn <em>Wanda</em>? What would she even say!?</p>
<p>“Hey, trusted fist of my multi-billion-dollar operation and also girl I know who has superpowers and is definitely hiding from a few governments, I got fucked by your girlfriend about a year back and I haven’t been the same since! She railed me until I was a new person! It’s that hilarious! Please laugh at this with me!”</p>
<p>Natasha groans and lets her head drop to her desk. She is royally and totally <em>fucked</em>.</p>
<p>(And, to her dismay, <em>not</em> in a good way).</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. nothing ever lasts forever</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>chapter specific tags: switch!nat, sub!wanda, dom!reader, strap ons, degradation, bratty wanda, brat taming</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Wanda gets the text that night, just as you’ve fallen asleep and Wanda was about to follow suit. Your light snores fill the room, Wanda listens for them as her too-bright phone screen burns her eyes.</p>
<p>
  <em>Office. Tomorrow morning. 10.</em>
</p>
<p>And then a knife emoji. <em>Sharp</em>. Natasha Romanoff does not tolerate a lot of things, including tardiness.</p>
<p>Wanda goes to bed afraid and wakes up even worse – the churning in her gut only intensifying as she walked up the concrete path that lead into Natasha’s house. She’s never been more terrified in her life. Is she about to be fired? Are you dead? Is <em>she</em> dead? Is Wanda a ghost? Has Natasha been convincing Wanda that she’s been alive this whole time and now it’s time to break the façade and have Wanda move onto the ghost realm?</p>
<p>Being called into Natasha’s office and being asked to sit in the center chair is nothing short of demoralizing, intimidating. She’s seen it happen before, clients or employees Natasha has to deliver terrible news to – they never take it well, always crying and sobbing and wailing. They always have to be carried away by the guards stationed outside Natasha’s office and into their cars.</p>
<p>Will that have to happen to her? Will two giant-ass dudes have to carry her outside so she can have an emotional breakdown on the impeccably well-kept grass? What if someone sees her having said emotional breakdown on the impeccably well-kept grass? What if Wanda Maximoff gets caught by the many institutions of which she is running and hiding from?</p>
<p>The chair has a heavy dent in it from the other shameful citizens (and non-citizens, and those not defined as people) of whom have sat in the chair before her. Natasha doesn’t meet Wanda’s gaze, keeping her eyes focused on the bare desk in front of her.</p>
<p>Both of them can barely breathe, each having an equally silent crisis. Neither speaks until the door has been long shut, the sounds outside the room blocked out by the heavy doors.</p>
<p>“I once had sex with your girlfriend,” Natasha says, so quick the words mesh into one.</p>
<p>Wanda shakes her head, running her hands through her hair. “<em>What the fuck are you talking about?”</em></p>
<p>Natasha exhales deeply, clenching her eyes shut before speaking again. “I had sex with your girlfriend.”</p>
<p>Wanda eyes go wide with sadness – worried her worst nightmare is true. “She…you…she chea-“</p>
<p>Natasha holds out her hands, only now realizing her mistake in phrasing. “NO! No! Absolutely not. No, that’s not what happened. That’s not…No, Wanda, she didn’t cheat on you with me, that’s not what I’m saying.”</p>
<p>Wanda – still wringing her hands – breathes deeply. “Then what…what…”</p>
<p>Natasha sighs, trying to find the right words. “Do you remember when Bucky got hurt? Like, when his arm got,” she wiggles the same arm Bucky lost in the accident – the one Natasha inadvertently caused.</p>
<p>Wanda looks confused but answers anyway. “Yeah, like a year ago.”</p>
<p>“I got, I got <em>super</em> drunk that night. And it was, uh, the woman is now your girlfriend, she uh…she helped me that night – she uh, she got me back to her apartment. Made sure I slept and didn’t die choking on my own vomit. And took care of me the next morning…” Natasha sighs, worried about what she’s going to say. “The next morning, we had sex.” Natasha whispers the last sentence sadly, wringing her hands. “We haven’t talked since.”</p>
<p>Wanda, stunned, says nothing. Each time she believes she’s found the words they fail to capture the whirlwind of emotions and thoughts flashing in front of her eyes. Blood pounds in her ears and her hands shake and her heart pounds – nevertheless, the two of them continue to converse even as Wanda’s eyes water. Everything’s a blur – the only clarity when Wanda thumps her way up the several flight of stairs that lead into her, <em>your</em> apartment.</p>
<p>She opens the door hastily, hands shaking near-violently as she finds the right key and turns it in the lock. If this were any other day, she’d step in as quietly as possible – try to be a voyeur in her own home to try and catch even a second of you cooking peacefully. You’re in one of her shirts, a large one that hits your thighs and rides up when you bent down or stand on your tip-toes or bend forward over a pot.</p>
<p>Whatever you’re cooking smells delicious, enough to distract from the matter at hand – to stop Wanda in her tracks as thick spices and hearty herbs fills her nostrils.</p>
<p>Still, it only allows her a few seconds of peace before she’s stepping into the kitchen, fists clenched at her sides and breathing quick and shallow. The wrath, the dread, it blinds and deafens her – the only thing Wanda hears being the only words she could hope would leave your lips.  </p>
<p>“I mean, I know what you did, what you do. You’ve told me enough I just…” you sigh. “I had no idea. I like, sort of knew what Nat did. I just <em>didn’t have any idea</em> that you two knew each other. <em>Or</em> that she, uh, was your <em>boss</em>.”</p>
<p>Wanda looks as if she’s about to cry, her chest heaving. “Are you <em>sure?”</em></p>
<p>You nod, moving toward her but not touching her. “Wanda, I’d tell you if I fucked your boss the second I would’ve found out – but, babe,” you try to calm your beating heart by digging your nails into your palms. It doesn’t work. “Even if I knew, you have to understand. This was over a year ago, I haven’t seen her since, and I <em>love you.</em> We’ve built a home together. Me having sex with her doesn’t change that.”</p>
<p>There’s silence, then, the thick kind that comes from a fight without resolve. You’re worried she’ll storm out, only to return when she decides – or, worse, tell you to pack your things and leave. Wanda does neither of those things, though, instead silently moving to the stir the pot before tasting at the wooden spoon.</p>
<p>You know everything will be fine when she makes a comment about needing more salt – the special kind you bought a long while ago from the farmer’s market that somehow hadn’t run out. Your mother once told you that the kitchen could end all disagreements, all squabbles and verbal throwdowns. You never really believed you until now, as you both silently cook, and then eat, and then clean up together.</p>
<p>Not a word is exchanged until you’re both in bed, you curled around her on your side as she lays flat on her back. It’s then, after the sun has long set and the last scents of food had gone up though the vents, that one of you speaks.</p>
<p>Wanda swallows, mumbling something that, whether or not is her intention, only she can hear. “Natasha says she wants to see you.”</p>
<p>Your eyes narrow, brows furrowed as you pick up your head to look at her. “What?”</p>
<p>Wanda doesn’t meet your gaze as she speaks. “I talked to Natasha this morning about it. About you. That’s why, uh. I came home like that. It’s not that I just trust you, I just…wanted to talk about it…”</p>
<p>You nudge closer to her as she trails off, trying to reassure her. “It’s okay, babe, you don’t have…I trust you. It’s okay.”</p>
<p>Wanda nods before continuing. “She and I were talking, and she asked to see you after. Wanted my permission, though. Wanted to make sure I was okay with it.”</p>
<p>“Are you?” you whisper as your heart rate picks back up – though, this time, for a much different reason.</p>
<p>She nods. “I mean, I’m not some overprotective Dad on prom night – I’m never gonna stop you from seeing someone. Told her it was up to you.”</p>
<p>You exhale deeply, still silent. It takes a long while for you to say anything, and even then it doesn’t do much to dissolve the thick tension in the room. “I do want to see her again,” Wanda clears her throat but you continue speaking before she can begin. “But I want you there, too.”</p>
<p>That’s how, two weeks later, you find yourself intoxicated in a way you can’t describe, standing next to your bed as both women kneel before you.</p>
<p>You’re not <em>drunk</em>. Drunk is too extreme. Drunk makes you seem rash, impulsive – like you don’t know what you’re doing, why you’re doing it. Makes it seems like you don’t want to remember this, want to be able to blame all</p>
<p>You’re not drunk, you’re <em>bold.</em> You’re two sips into some old-as-balls bourbon you got when you graduated college – gifted to you by a professor who thought it meant he’d let you get into his pants. <em>Fool. </em>You’re a woman with fire resting on your skin and the world teetering at your fingertips.  You control <em>everything</em>. And today, “everything” is defined as two of the most beautiful women you’ve ever seen on their knees in front you.</p>
<p>It’s natural, wonderful – the feeling of looking down at them with their big eyes and hair pulled back into French braids and dark collars on their milky skin. Neither of them has leashes – <em>yet…</em>but judging by the glint in Natasha’s eyes and the smirk playing at her lips that you’ll need to get it from its resting place on her desk very soon.</p>
<p>“I think this is the stuff dreams are made of,” you say to no one and both of them. “Two sluts at my feet for me to use. Two perfect little toys at my disposable. I wonder what I should have you do first…”</p>
<p>At the foot of the best is a loveseat, draped upon the loveseat is a towel covered in sex toys – placed carefully with even amounts of space between them. A few empty spots mark where toys <em>used</em> to be – most notably the collars and the baby pink butt plug Wanda’s wearing.</p>
<p>It’s the double-ended dildo that ends up catching your eye. It’s half baby blue and half black, mixing in the middle; thick, long, girthy. Wanda bought it for you awhile back – a gift after she had to leave for a last-minute business trip with little explanation but a lot of apology. You didn’t mind, her explanation for her job had been quite believable and you did not worry. Still, you didn’t <em>refuse</em> the gifts she showered you with when she got back eight days later.</p>
<p>You smile at the memory, but also from the anticipation. You turn back to the two women on the floor, snapping in each of their faces before pointing to opposite walls. Despite this, they wait for your verbal command before moving a muscle.</p>
<p><em>Such good girls, the both of them</em>.</p>
<p>“Now,” you tell them calmly. Obediently and without hesitation, they do as they’re told. It’s then that you can admire their matching lingerie sets. They were expensive (you hesitate to spend that much on rent, let alone four pieces of skimpy, see-through fabric), you can’t deny it. But the crotchless panties, framing each of their wet pussies perfectly? The matching bras are just as frilly as the panties and the deep maroon contrasts both of their pale skin tones.  Intricate lace is almost, <em>almost</em> distracting from their pert nipples and skin you want to bite and bruise and <em>mark. </em>“Face opposite walls so I can watch you fuck yourself properly.”</p>
<p>They’re both so beautiful, so desperate. Through the chorus of their moans and whimpers you can hear their wet cunts fucking back on the thick double-ended dildo.</p>
<p>Wanda, as usual, is already making those noises that mean she’s about to come – her hips making tighter movements and wide eyes screwed shut.</p>
<p>“Aw, does my baby wanna come?” you coo, moving the sweaty hair away from her reddened face.</p>
<p>Wanda whines high in her throat, fucking back on the dildo with vigor. “<em>Yes,</em> <em>yes yes </em>please lemme come I wanna come Mommy <em>please!”</em></p>
<p>Natasha, the quieter of the two, nods furiously as her face scrunches up in concentration. Her moans are low and breathy, hips driving backwards in target hits against Wanda.</p>
<p>Part of you wants to deny them, watch them with cry and choke on their own tears as they focus on following orders, on being good, on <em>not coming. </em>Another part of you wants to watch them fall apart, watch their thighs shake and legs give out and blissful faces find their way long their faces and listen to them moan and cry and thank you with hushed, raspy voices.</p>
<p>It doesn’t take much deliberating for the latter side of you to win out – to give them permission and instruct them to rub their clits as you take another sip of alcohol. Small sparks dance along Wanda’s fingers as they move over her pussy, control over her powers ceding to that over her pleasure. Some of the small swirls of red-orange-yellow-blue seem to dance between their bodies, affecting Natasha as well, who cries out an especially pained noise as each spark touches and subsequently dissipates against her skin. The thrusts of their hips become even more erratic as the waves of their orgasms come crashing down on them, their breathing only steadying as you began to speak once more.</p>
<p>“Natasha,” you snap once in her direction, waiting for her body to jerk as a signal she’s paying attention. “Get atop Wanda…” you pause, then laugh. “I mean, straddle her to keep her hips pined to the ground.”</p>
<p>Wanda, normally incredibly mousy, seems to be drinking from the same fire-filled cup you’ve been sipping.</p>
<p>“Yeah, as if Natasha could top anybody,” she snorts. You and Natasha both snap your heads towards her, yours crooking to the side.</p>
<p>“You want to say that again?” you more command than ask.</p>
<p>Wanda, voice back to usual smallness, swallows loudly. “Uh, I, uh. I said. I said Natasha,” she coughs, tries to save herself. It doesn’t work. “I said, ‘as if Natasha could dom anybody,’ Mommy.”</p>
<p>Silence – a heavy one – falls over the room. You turn around, slowly, meeting Wanda’s eyes first and then Natasha’s. The latter woman looks to you for permission.</p>
<p>With one, small nod, she stands and looms over the other woman.</p>
<p>“You’re going to regret that,” you say – mostly to yourself. The wicked smile, though, is for the both of them.</p>
<p>“Do you want to test me?” Natasha hisses. She loops her forefinger in the stainless-steel O-ring and jerks Wanda forward so their lips are barely touching. Wanda takes it as an invitation, but pouts as Natasha pulls away. “You think you’re getting anything but a punishment after what you pulled?”</p>
<p>Wanda’s large eyes drain of mischief with every passing second that she studies the woman in front of her – realizing her mistake. It’s not long until she’s looking at her for assistance from you, her pleading eyes and cat-like features so cute you almost give in to her silent prayers.</p>
<p>Keyword: almost.</p>
<p>“Answer your Daddy,” you say plainly. You press your thighs together, desperate for friction but not wanting to give in just yet.</p>
<p>“N-no,” Wanda stutters. “No, Daddy.”</p>
<p>Natasha pulls at Wanda’s collar once more, hissing through her teeth. “I’ll give you one more chance to correct yourself.”</p>
<p>You can practically <em>hear</em> Wanda’s petrified gulp and you relish the fear in her wide eyes. “No, Daddy. I understand I deserve a punishment.”</p>
<p>“Good,” she says, letting the collar go. “now go lay on the bed.”</p>
<p>Wanda does as she’s told – resting her head in your lap. It gives you the perfect view of her face as she prepares to get fucked out of her mind.</p>
<p>Natasha grabs the fake cock and harness from the toy collection and pulls it on easily, the jingling of the individual straps like music to her hears. You pet at her hair, cupping her chin and cooing down at her.</p>
<p>“You gonna be a good girl for Daddy?” you ask.</p>
<p>She nods, lip pulled between her teeth. “Yes, Mommy.”</p>
<p>“Are you gonna be a dirty slut for Daddy while Mommy watches?”</p>
<p>“Yes Mommy.”</p>
<p>Natasha’s ready, then, and announces it by backing up against a wall with the fake cock bobbing against her stomach. “Good girl, now come prep Daddy’s cock.”</p>
<p>Wanda moves to stand, but immediately drops to her knees when Natasha glares at her and hisses, “Don’t you dare.”</p>
<p>She crawls across the room, head hung in shame and pussy soaked with anticipation. Wanda only looks up to wrap her lips around the silicon head, one of Natasha’s hands cradling the back of her neck with the other tangled in her hair. “I’m going to have so much fun with you,” you hear Natasha mumble as Wanda gags for the first time. “Can’t wait to make you come over and over, watch you not know whether to beg me to stop or keeping going. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”</p>
<p>Wanda nods, never breaking eye contact with Natasha.  </p>
<p>“You better not be touching yourself, you needy little thing,” you tsk from across the room as your fingers rub at your own clit. “Dirty sluts don’t get to come, do they.”</p>
<p>Wanda does her best to shake her head as Natasha continues to fuck her throat.</p>
<p>Sloppy, wet sounds punctuate Natasha’s words. “You like that, don’t you, baby girl? You like taking this big cock down your throat like this?”</p>
<p>Before Wanda can nod, Natasha’s pulling her head away suddenly, the woman on the floor gasping for air. She barely has time to catch her breath before Natasha’s picking her up and slamming her back against the wall, Wanda’s legs instinctively wrapping around Natasha’s waist.</p>
<p>Wanda moans, loud and unabashed, as Natasha fucks into her. You grab an unused vibrator from the end of the bed and begin to fuck yourself with it, the thrusts of the toy timed with Natasha’s. It’s good – it’s all <em>so</em> good – and your vision begins to cloud around the edges as you and Wanda both come together one, two times.</p>
<p>You’re breathing heavy when Natasha decides Wanda’s had enough, laughing as Wanda’s eyes remain unfocused and her breath comes out in pants.</p>
<p>“Pathetic,” Natasha mumbles just loud enough for you to hear. She lets go of Wanda’s hips, the woman collapsing onto the floor with weak knees. Still, that harsh exterior melts away as Wanda lays there, motionless and covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Natasha crouches down, then sits next to her, face softening. “Aw,” she coos, pulling Wanda into her so that she’s sitting on Natasha’s lap on the floor. “Such a good little girl for me. For us.”</p>
<p>Natasha rocks Wanda back and forth, giving her the occasional kiss to her temple or cheek or wherever else she can reach. You watch them for a minute or two, watch your two favorite people in the whole world mold themselves to each other, oblivious to whatever happened to go on around them. Eventually you go to the bathroom to dampen a cloth with warm water and get a glass of water (or, in this case, a mug you’d been meaning to take back to the kitchen for about a week. It only held water before, anyway, so you don’t feel that bad when you give it to Natasha to hold for your exhausted girlfriend to drink out of).</p>
<p>Wanda whimpers when you wipe down her pussy, flinching away and trapping your hand between her thighs. Before you can comfort her, though, Natasha does.</p>
<p>“Shh <em>libchen</em>,” she coos into her sweaty hairline. “Let Daddy care for you alright?”</p>
<p>Wanda makes a noise high in her throat to signal how much she <em>really</em> doesn’t want the terry cloth against her center, but nonetheless allows Natasha to hold her thighs open as you clean her up. It’s awhile before Wanda full returns to reality – awhile before her breathing goes back to normal, her pupils becoming smaller, her legs not shaking.</p>
<p>“You wanna go to bed or get something to eat?” you ask.</p>
<p>Wanda doesn’t respond, but her droopy eyes and limp body answer the question for you.</p>
<p>“Let’s put her to bed and order food in few hours,” you tell Natasha. “The diner down the street is 24-hour, menu’s on the fridge. One of us can call later.”</p>
<p>Natasha whispers an <em>“okay,”</em> careful not to wake Wanda. She lifts the sleeping woman into the bed you share with her, watching her for a moment before beckoning you over. You oblige, because of course you do. Noiselessly, you and Natasha lay on either side of Wanda, your hands touching ever so lightly as fatigue acts as a fire blanket – putting the previous actions of the night to rest.</p>
<p>You all fall asleep like that, sweaty limbs tangled and chests heaving in sync. In truth, you never could’ve asked for anything better – this, being with the both of them, is bliss. Hopefully, you never have to be without either of them ever again.</p>
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